


Thank You

by hanschen_ril0w



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Financial Issues, Fluff and Angst, M/M, y’all this is super soft please stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:17:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanschen_ril0w/pseuds/hanschen_ril0w
Summary: Otto, the one still thing on this earth. Otto, the one person who’s ever thought Georg was enough. Otto, the one aspect of Georg’s life that was perfect without being flawless and beautiful without being imagined.





	Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> playing piano helps a lot with my anxiety. so does stanning this goddamn ship. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

       

        It doesn’t take much.

 

        It never takes much, really.

 

        Sometimes all it takes is a flicker in the light bulb, or a note taped to the door, or another letter in the mail, or a night without heat. Sometimes all it takes is a sideways glance. Sometimes all it takes is no glance at all. It can be a car horn outside. A thunderstorm. A voice. A moment. An eternity. Old things. New things. All things.

 

        Tonight, it’s a handful of envelopes.

 

        They’re all ripped up, contents strewn over the bedsheets. White paper. Gray creases. Black ink lines and words and dots and letters and so many numbers it makes Georg’s head spin. Everything makes Georg’s head spin. Everything is too much.

 

        And it never takes much.

 

        He’s sitting there, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, just staring at it all in the dim lamplightー water, electricity, heat, telephone, taxes, rent. They’ll pay and they’ll manage and they’ll live, but it’s all too much. It’s all too fucking much. And maybe he should have waited for his mother to come home from her night shift to open the envelopes, but the day was bad enough already, and he always thinks he can handle it but he can’t handle anything and it’s all so much and it’s all too much and now it’s ten thirty at night and he can’t blink and he’s shaking so hard he can barely see.

 

        That seems to be a recurring theme lately. The shaking. It’s as if there’s this inescapable earthquake, always teetering on the brink of destroying Georg’s world. It toys with him, the ventriloquist to his unwilling marionette, pulling the strings and winding him up as he’s pulled in every direction by weak, helpless threads. The ground is never still. The show is never over. A smile is never a smile. A reassurance is never to be trusted.

 

        And there’s always, always, always the shaking.

 

        He barely registers the tears until he feels them, hot and ceaseless, sliding between his fingers and onto his arms and all over his face and _oh_. _This_ is when he hates himself. _This_ is when he wants nothing more than to be strong and to just be _able_ ー able to handle life, able to handle everything, able to handle _anything at all_. But he can’t. He can’t. He can only shake and sob and hope he doesn’t die before he can breathe again. It doesn’t take much. It never takes much to set the earthquake into motion, to pull the strings out of his reach, to lose control. And he’s shaking. Always shaking. Whether it’s a punch to the neck or a failed test or an ignored message or a pile of bills on his bedsheets, it’s always enough. It’s always, always, always enough to remind him in tears and pain and sharp, shallow, gasps that he is never, never, never enough.

 

        He is weak.

 

        He is helpless.

 

        Georg manages to gulp down enough air to let out a spluttering gasp, swallowing again in a valiant effort to remind himself how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Before he can think twice, he’s picking himself up, lurching forward with his limbs barely conscious, and stumbling across the floor to the one thing he can handle. The one thing he can take, all yellowing ivory and faded wood and creaking pedals and echoing glory through his bones and through his skin. He sits down at his secondhand baby grand, the one he would have sold for rent money if it was worth even a cent, and places his hands over the keys, shaking and shaking and shaking. He squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he possibly can. And he plays.

 

        And _oh_.

 

        _This_ is when he is himself.

 

        _This_ is when he is strong. _This_ is when he is ableー able to be this glistening, wonderful, _better_  version of Georg Zirschnitz, who sits not at a loveless baby grand but at a priceless grand piano as he glows pure gold in the light of a single spotlight. He isn’t shaking, he isn’t sobbing, he isn’t following strings. He is everything he’s never been and everything he’s ever wanted to be. He is grinning, charming and dazzling a crowd of people who shine with a kind of wonder that radiates care and joy and comradery. He is playing. The music is echoing through every inch of the theater. The keys feel like heaven under his hands. The rhythms of old things, new things, all things, and everything are swirling through the air in perfect balance. There’s security. There’s success. There’s art, there’s talent, there’s harmony, there’s life. There’s Georg. The Georg who beams. The Georg who is safe. The Georg who is really, genuinely beautiful.

 

        The Georg who is loved.

 

        There’s a hard knock at the apartment door, and he’s back. Back at his baby grand. Back in his room. Back in his hollow, shaking self.

 

        There’s always, always, always the shaking.

 

        He gets up, finding his legs a little numb as his trips over himself to get to the doorー it’s probably his mother home from work early, in which case his efforts to still his body and calm his nerves are for her sake and her sake alone. She has enough on her plate already. They both do. And it never takes much. Taking a long breath, Georg undoes the lock and swings open the door.

 

        “I thought your shift went till eleven-thiー”

 

        Otto stands in the doorway, lips turned up in an apologetic shadow of a smile. “Hi.”

 

        “Otto.” That’s all Georg can get out. It’s close enough to a greeting.

 

        “Listen, I should’ve called, I know.” Otto scratches the back of his neck, looking painfully guilty and oddly embarrassed. Shame looks strange on him. Georg blinks.

 

        He shakes his head in protest. “It’s okay, it’s, you didn’tー”

 

        “I didn’t mean to spring up on you or scare you or anything, I just…” Otto’s voice gets a little quieter and he looks down. “Our heat blew out again and my mom wanted me to find someplace warmer to stay and I was rushing and I didn’t think to tell you and I just kinda came.”

 

        Georg stares at him for another moment. Otto, standing there in a pair of his older brother’s hand-me-down sweatpants with his backpack hanging off one shoulder and his cheeks flushed from the cold. Otto. There’s a little flutter in his chest, and even after so long, Georg is still wondering when he’ll stop feeling those tiny butterflies whenever he’s around him.

 

        A part of him hopes they’ll never go away.

 

        Even if it _is_ a little inconvenient at the moment, considering he’s just standing there while Otto shivers out in the hall.

 

        “Stay over.”

 

        Otto smiles faintly. “Yeah?”

 

        “Yeah.”

 

        “You’re shaking. I should’ve calledー”

 

        Georg reaches over the threshold, pulling Otto into his arms. It’s somewhere between a hug and a sudden need for proximity. And Otto seems to feel it, too, because he returns the gesture with no hesitation, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head against Georg’s shoulder. They stand there for a moment, just holding each other, just breathing and clutching and _being_ together, and Otto presses a hint of a kiss to Georg’s neck before they part.

 

        “You never have to call,” Georg says, and a little of the tension in his head fizzles away as he smiles. “You could seriously climb up the wall and jump in my window. Anytime. It’s okay. It’s all okay. You’re okay.”

 

        Otto steps to the side to let Georg swing the door closed before reaching out and taking his hand, interlocking their fingers with a gentle squeeze.

 

        Georg winces. “Your hand is freezing.”

 

        “Sorry.” Otto drops his grip. “I walked here.”

 

        With a shallow huff of indignance, Georg grabs Otto’s hand back, holding on tighter than before. “Well don’t just let _go_.”

 

        At this, Otto lets out a light laugh, beginning to follow Georg’s lead down the hall towards his bedroom as he aimlessly laces and unlaces their fingers together. Just to feel their hands touching.

 

        Georg stops in front of a door, twisting and tugging the handle with his free hand until it creaks open to reveal a pathetic imitation of a closet. “Here.”

 

        Dropping Otto’s hand, he crouches down, reaches in, and pulls out a thick blanket that’s a little old and more than a little heavy. Then comes a knit throw, a blue quilt, and a scratchy white blanket with fringe on two sides. “Hold these.”

 

        Otto takes the stack, smirking at him. “Demanding, huh?”

 

        “Just putting those arms to work.” Georg’s voice is still a little thin, but his smile is starting to look more like it normally does. Otto can’t help but grin back. “Sailor boy.”

 

        Shifting the blankets to one side, Otto flexes his bicep teasingly. “I know you love a strong guy.”

 

        Getting up from the floor with a slight stumble, Georg drops one more throw into Otto’s arms and winks behind his glasses. “And I know _you_ love a good blanket.”

 

        He pushes the closet door closed, resting his hand ever so slightly on Otto’s arm as they continue down the hall to his bedroom.

 

        And, immediately, Georg’s chest clenches.

 

        The door is still ajar from his rush earlier. The piano lid is up, the bench pushed out. The radiator in the corner of the room squeaks and creaks.

 

        The bills are still scattered on the bed.

 

        “Sorry, let me just…” Georg pushes ahead of Otto, hands shaking to no end, gathering up the papers and the envelopes and stuffing them all together in as neat a pile as he can manage. “It’s a mess, sorry, I didn’t…”

 

        Otto sits down on the piano bench. He rests the blankets in his lap, watching Georg push bills and notices and forms around on the bed as he tries to pick them up and keep them out of sight.

 

        “Georg, it’s okay, you don’tー”

 

        “Later.” Georg turns, hands full of papers. There’s an odd, pleading look in his eyes, and his breath is coming out short and fast. “Just. Not right now. Please.”

 

        He finishes piling everything together in silence. Otto knows not to push. After a moment, Georg straightens the bedsheets and takes a few careful steps over to the piano, where he rests the stack of papers. There’s a moment where he just stands there. It’s as if there’s this tremor of composure that’s fading ever so slightly into silence, and Georg is trapped in a strange in-between where he wants his free will just as much as he wants to forfeit his control to that anxious puppeteer in his head.

 

        “Hey.” And this is how it always isー Otto’s voice is what quells the indecision. He tilts his head, taking Georg’s sleeve between his fingers and gently pulling him down so that they’re both sitting on the piano bench. Side by side. Thighs touching. “Thanks. For this.”

 

        A faint smile crosses Georg’s face.

 

        It doesn’t take much.

 

        He leans over, breaking through the staticky haze that always seems to trap him inside his head. Lets his eyes fall shut. Kisses Otto’s cheek. It’s gentle and it’s quiet and it’s enough to convey _you’re welcome_. Otto turns his head, catching Georg’s lips, and they both fall into that easy rhythm of a kiss. And it’s the kind of kiss that’s perfect without being flawless, because there’s something beautiful about an accidental bump of their noses or a little gasp of a breath against the other’s mouth, and there’s something about the little slips and ins and outs that makes it so real and so raw and so genuine. Otto dances a few fingers along Georg’s shoulders, over his neck, into his hair, and he’s cradling his head as if, together, they are the only still thing on a spinning, shaking, storming earth. Georg sighs against Otto’s lips. Otto holds back a smile.

 

        It’s gentle and it’s quiet and it’s enough to carry the kind of _you’re welcome_ that’s less of a _you’re welcome for a favor_ and more of a _you’re welcome to stay_ and _you’re welcome to be here_ and _you’re welcome to have me_ and _you’re welcome to hold me and to touch me and to be part of who I am._

 

        Georg pulls back, hands still braced on Otto’s shoulders. Their foreheads are still touching. “You’re still cold.”

 

        Otto presses one more quick kiss to Georg’s lips, more a light peck than anything. “You’re still shaking.”

 

        And, as reluctant as he is to pull too far away, Georg stands up. He takes the blankets from Otto’s lap, crossing to the far side of his bed.

 

        “We’re using all the blankets, you know,” he says mildly, beginning to spread them out over the sheets. “Every single one.”

 

        Otto grins, and his whole face lights up with a gentle, sated glow. “I know.”

 

        Within a moment, they’re both standing on opposite sides of the bed, spreading blanket after throw after quilt one on top of the other. It’s a fast job, and without too much care put into perfect evenness, it’s only another minute until Otto kicks off his shoes and the two boys crawl under the covers.

 

        “I’m sorry. About your heat and all.”

 

        Wordlessly, Otto slides closer. Otto, the one still thing on this earth. Otto, the one person who’s ever thought Georg was enough. Otto, the one aspect of Georg’s life that was perfect without being flawless and beautiful without being imagined. Otto.

 

        Georg doesn’t even notice they’ve moved until he registers their legs tangled up together, and a second later Otto’s arm is draped over Georg’s waist, and Georg rests his hand on the side of Otto’s face, and they’re both leaning in so their noses are almost touching, and Georg thinks he’ll die of complete bliss if they get any closer together.

 

        “Are you warm enough?” And of course now he’s babbling. “I can probably find more blankets or another sweatshirt or something if this isn’t enough. Or if you wantー”

 

        “I’m warm enough.” Otto interrupts him. He smiles gently and Georg thinks it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. “And, hey.”

 

        “Yeah?”

 

        Otto traces a little pattern with his thumb on the small of Georg’s back under his shirt, and they both shift impossibly closer. “We’re gonna be okay, right?”

 

        There’s something about the way Otto’s voice just barely cracks and the way his eyes are dark with some combination of euphoria and worry and the way he holds Georg that kindles a gentle, quiet, welcome flame in Georg’s chest, and he nods. “We’re okay.” Otto leans in, softly pressing their lips together again and again. “We’re okay.” Georg says between kisses. “We’re okay.”

 

        “Thank you,” Otto says against his mouth.

 

        “Thank _you_.” Georg’s reply is barely audible. _Thank you for staying_ and _thank you for being here_ and _thank you for having me_ and _thank you for holding me and touching me and being part of who I am._

 

        Otto pulls back from the kiss, nuzzling his nose against Georg’s with a soft smile.

 

        _Thank you for making me feel safe._

 

        “I love you,” Georg whispers.

 

        _Thank you for making me feel really, genuinely beautiful._

 

        Otto kisses him again, short and sweet. “I love you, too.”

 

        _Thank you for making me feel loved._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i’m a hoe for validation so please please please leave comments and/or kudos!! also i’m on tumblr @hanschen-ril0w <3


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